


Tenpin

by OnMyShore



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Arguing, But It's Really Fine, Fluff, M/M, Married Life, Patrick's Feud With Ronnie Is Funny Until It's Not, Questionable Cocktail Consumption, Teasing, The Saga Of Gwen Continues, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnMyShore/pseuds/OnMyShore
Summary: Schitt's Creek starts up its own bowling league, and it's only a matter of time before David gets pulled in.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 21
Kudos: 134
Collections: Schitt’s Creek Sports Fest





	Tenpin

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSportsFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSportsFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> These sports would normally play on ESPN 3 or other small market stations - Roller Derby, Bowling, Scrabble Tournaments, Spelling Bees, Billiards/Pool, Frisbee, hacky sack, beer pong, beer olympics, jello wrestling, competitive knitting. 
> 
> Your submission for this prompt can be fully in an Alternate Universe, just canon divergent or fully canon compliant. For example:
> 
> _College AU with some beer pong/hacky sack/jello wrestling shenanigans?_
> 
> _Meet ugly on opposite bowling teams?_
> 
> _The Schitt's Creek Adult Spelling Bee to Benefit the random charity of your choice?_
> 
> _Stevie Budd and the impressive roller derby team of the Schitt Heads road trip to Beast of the East in Montreal?_
> 
>   
> If you can count points, it's a sport!

David’s first mistake, he realizes later, is snatching the bat out of Patrick’s hands and stepping up to the plate. He could have let Patrick pull him out like he wanted, send in a snip-hitter (or whatever the fuck) while he sulked his way through several hot dogs. Instead, he hit the damn ball and ran the damn bases and won the damn game, and he got swept up in Patrick’s arms and the cheers of his team, and he let himself soak it in, content in the knowledge that this was a one-time thing.

David’s second mistake is letting himself get comfortable enough to believe that was true.

-

“Bowling.” David’s tone is flat as he repeats the word back to Patrick, who’s making a show of concentrating on the laptop open in front of him on the counter.

“That’s right,” Patrick says without looking back at him, which is good because David’s sure his face is doing some very unflattering things.

“You want me to go bowling with you,” David clarifies, because there’s always the possibility - however remote - that he heard him wrong.

“I do.” No such luck. Patrick glances back over his shoulder and now David knows his face is doing something it shouldn’t because he hastens to add, “It would only be for one night.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“It’s just that Ray texted me earlier that he’s going to be out of town for a few days. Apparently his sister is having a baby?” His voice tilts up at the end, like he’s expecting David to confirm, like David has any idea what anybody in this town even does.

“And she couldn’t just..I don’t know... _hold it in_ until the day after tomorrow?”

Patrick chuckles. “I don’t think that’s how babies work.”

David shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Anyway,” Patrick presses on, “if I can’t find someone to replace him, Ray takes a zero for the night and that messes up the team score, and that messes up our standing. So even if you just knock down a single pin on your turn, it’s still better than if nobody was playing at all.”

David had been folding a fresh shipment of wool throws, but now he stops to give his husband the full focus of his glare. “Are you saying you think I’ll only be able to knock down one?”

“At least one,” Patrick says, just a beat too late.

David gives a knowing _hmph_. “Why can’t you ask Stevie?”

“Stevie already turned me down.”

He’s not even the first choice in this comedy of errors. Insult to energy. “So she’s allowed to say no and I’m not?”

Patrick abandons his laptop to come around the counter and join David at the table. David goes back to his folding, determined to ignore Patrick and his pleading little puppy dog eyes. “The problem I’m having is that I can’t bribe her as well as you.”

David can feel a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. Giving Patrick a sideways glance, he says, “I didn’t know bribery was on the table.”

Patrick hums as he slips his arms around David’s waist. “Just name your terms.”

“Anything I want?”

Patrick presses his lips against his shoulder. “Anything.”

Because David can never miss an opportunity to fuck with him when the opportunity presents itself, he immediately says, “I get to pick the movies for the next week.” He has to swallow a laugh at the look of naked disbelief on Patrick’s face.

“That’s-you-I mean,” Patrick stammers, while David gives him a Very Serious Look. “That’s what you want?”

David blinks. “Why, what were you thinking?”

He lets Patrick start to walk away with a shake of his head before snapping his fingers. “Oh! You were talking about sex!”

Patrick rolls his eyes at the smirk he can no longer hide. “Sure, but if that’s not something you’re into, we can just watch movies.”

David pretends to consider it. “No, we can do your thing, that’s fine.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m very sure.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, of course. I’ll draw up a contract.”

Patrick snorts. “Sure, send it over and I’ll have my lawyers take a look.”

“As if we could afford lawyers.” David flutters a hand around the empty store. Patrick laughs, a little rueful, and fixes David with a hopeful stare. “Is that a yes I’m hearing?”

David should have let Patrick take the bat away. He should have thrown the bat into the fucking woods. But he didn’t, and the precedent was set. Now, he fiddles with the pile of blankets on the table, knowing he’s lost the battle. “If I must,” he murmurs.

Patrick smiles like the sun, like he’s the cutest thing David has ever seen (because he is). “I promise we’ll have a good time. We’ll play a few games, get a pitcher of beer - a pitcher of margaritas,” he amends at David’s raised eyebrow, “make a night out of it. It’ll be fun.”

It will be the opposite of fun, David is pretty sure, but it makes him happy to see Patrick happy. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made.

-

The Schitt’s Creek Bowling League is a fairly recent development, born more out of necessity than a genuine interest in the game. Spring and summer bring baseball, autumn boasts a semi-decent lacrosse team, but organized team sports in winter tend to be lacking. There’s the odd game of shinny on the pond near the outskirts of town, obviously, though the town lacks the funding for any type of official team, and various attempts have been made to resurrect the curling club over the years, none of which have generated much success (due in no small part to the fact that the brooms kept getting stolen). For the most part, the population of Schitt’s Creek tends to hunker down from January to April, counting the days until the temperatures turn just mild enough to draw them back out.

For some people (re: David), this arrangement works out just fine. Since getting married, David has leaned into his homebody tendencies. It’s not that he never goes out - he likes going out just fine - but he’s equally content with the simple comforts of his living room, a glass of wine, and his husband’s head in his lap. As far as he’s concerned, winter is just an excuse to indulge himself as much as he can, before the nicer weather arrives and he feels obligated to leave the house.

For other people (re: Patrick), winter is a time of near-constant restlessness. Patrick can appreciate a cozy night in as much as David, but after a few days of only seeing the inside of their house and the inside of their store, he starts to go a little stir-crazy, threatening to take David with him. He fiddles with the products on the shelves that David spent the morning arranging, spends half an hour pacing the floor between the kitchen and the living room, drums his fingers on the arm of the couch while they attempt to watch a movie. David does his best to keep him entertained, but without any sort of regular activity on the horizon, it often feels like a losing battle.

Apparently, Patrick isn’t the only one in town who’s experiencing a winter slump, because towards the end of January, Twyla comes into the store with a stack of posters advertising _SCHITT’S CREEK BOWLING LEAGUE (no experience necessary)_ in clashing colors and fonts, complete with clip art pins being scattered in all directions, and asks if she could hang one in the front window. The answer is obviously no - tacky posters put on display in the front windows is incorrect - but he offers to put one up behind the register until opening week as a compromise. (At least if he’s ringing people up he won’t have to look at it.) At the last minute, he asks for an extra one to bring home to Patrick, who had volunteered to do the day’s vendor runs so David didn’t have to drive in the snow.

It’s unclear who was actually responsible for starting up the bowling league (or maybe David had just stopped listening), but it catches on with surprising swiftness. Maybe it’s just the general lack of anything to do, but within days of the posters going up, it feels like half the town has signed on, including Patrick. Schitt’s Creek doesn’t actually have a bowling alley, of course, so every Wednesday evening after they close up the store, Patrick drops David off at home and makes the trek to Elm Valley, half an hour away. The arrangement benefits them both - David is surprised to find that he actually enjoys his evenings alone, something he’s had precious little of since he first came to this town. And having a designated activity to look forward to every week has helped settle the worst of Patrick’s cabin fever. He’s noticeably more relaxed in the days after he bowls, and by the time he starts to get keyed up again, it’s time to go back out and play. So Patrick gets his night out, David keeps his nights in, and everybody wins.

Usually.

-

The first thing David notices about the bowling alley is the smell, a combination of nacho cheese and stale beer, with cigarette smoke ground into the faded carpet, at odds with the No Smoking sign posted near the entrance. A bored-looking teenager with a loose concept of personal hygiene slides a pair of shoes across the counter towards David while Patrick signs them in. David pinches them between his thumb and forefinger with a disdainful sniff.

The second thing that David notices is the noise. It’s a cacophony of voices and laughter, the clatter of a ball smashing into pins, followed by either a series of cheers or some very thorough cursing. There’s a series of beeps and whirs and various electronic nonsense from the small arcade down at one end, accompanied by the Chuckie-doll laughter of preteen boys. Above it all, Bob Seger wails about that old-time rock and roll. It’s a lot, bordering on too much, and David hasn’t prepared himself for this level of sensory overload, but before it can completely overwhelm him he feels a hand at his elbow.

“Our lane is this way,” Patrick says, leading him to the far end of the bowling alley, away from the arcade and the terrible children. Twelve lanes have been marked off with _RESERVED_ signs, divided into pairs, each set with two vinyl upholstered benches and little tables that have been bolted to the floor. Patrick consults his phone before guiding them over to Lane 2, in the pair of lanes at the very end. Twyla is already sitting on the Lane 1 bench, lacing up a gaudy pair of purple bowling shoes, and she gives them a bright smile as they put their stuff down on the bench opposite.

“David!” she says. “You’re the last person I expected to see here!”

David would be offended if he was less self-aware, but he doesn’t need anyone to tell him how out-of-place he looks here. It’s the fucking turkey shoot all over again, just without the camo and the firearms.

“Ray couldn’t make it, so David’s filling in for him,” Patrick supplies, shooting David a quick smile. Twyla looks delighted.

“That’s so exciting!” she enthuses, sounding alarmingly sincere. “I’m actually playing with a substitute tonight, too, so don’t worry, you’re in good company.”

“Gwen couldn’t make it?” Patrick’s voice is carefully neutral. He’s been filling David in on the ongoing Gwen situation because he has a secret weakness for collecting town gossip (a fact that brings David endless amounts of joy). Gwen is, for all intents and purposes, Twyla’s bowling partner, except that nobody can actually recall seeing her there more than once. There are some who even think that she’s never shown up at all, though Patrick maintains that he’s sure she was there that one time. He’d told David over dinner the week before that he’s pretty sure Twyla has had a different partner every week since the league started, though she remains good-natured about the situation, in her typical Twyla way.

Now, she just shakes her head. “She said something came up. She called me pretty last-minute, so whatever it is, it must have been important.”

“I’m sure,” David says, following Patrick’s gaze two lanes down to where Bob is staring wistfully at the door. He and Patrick glance at each other, eyebrows raised. _Yikes_.

“So who’d you get to fill in?” Patrick asks as David gingerly removes his shoes. Twyla glances past them and smiles again.

“Here she is now,” she says, and they turn in union to see Stevie making her way over. David’s mouth drops open in shock. A bowling alley is one of the last places he’d expect to see her, falling somewhere between a bridal expo and a lecture on tax brackets. (He has no room to talk since he’s there too, but that’s not the point.) Next to him, Patrick looks equally befuddled - and the tiniest bit betrayed - but he’s faster at slapping on the poker face than David is.

“Stevie!” Twyla calls, waving her over like she’s not already making a beeline right for them. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Yes,” David cuts in, “we’re all just so shocked and thrilled to see you here tonight!” Patrick hums in agreement, arms folded across his chest, though his expression is mild enough.

Stevie ignores them both. “Well, I couldn’t turn down an opportunity to watch David put on shoes that had just been on someone else’s feet.”

David looks down at the shoe he’d been in the middle of lacing up. _Ew._ “I thought you couldn’t make it tonight? Isn’t that what you told my husband when he asked for your services?”

Stevie shrugs. “I couldn’t. And then I decided I could.”

“So you’re willing to suffer just to watch me suffer?”

“And they say I don’t know how to commit.” Stevie gives him a smile laced with sarcasm as she yanks off her black Converse - clean and nearly scuff-free, David notices. It’s nice to know that running a small motel empire can at least afford her a new pair of sneakers.

“Nobody is suffering,” Patrick interjects, ignoring the skeptical glance that David and Stevie share. “It’s a night of bowling, not medieval torture.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be fun!” Twyla adds. “I used to come here with my mom when she couldn’t find a babysitter. Her dates would let me keep the change from the cigarette machine.” Everyone winces but Twyla remains cheerfully oblivious to their distress. David turns to make a snide comment to Stevie, but she’s zeroed in on the shoes that Patrick is pulling on.

“Did you seriously bring your own bowling shoes?” she says.

Patrick looks down at his feet and back up, coloring slightly. “I had them from before. My dad and I were in an amateur bowling league when I was younger. We used to play during the summer when I was home from school.” David feels his expression go soft; every cute story about his husband’s small-town-normal upbringing makes his Grinch heart grow three sizes. Stevie, on the other hand, isn’t so charmed, and she just snorts. Frowning, Patrick says, “I notice you’re not making fun of Twyla for wearing her own shoes.”

Stevie feigns confusion. “Why would I make fun of Twyla? That’s so mean, what’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Twyla says as Patrick attempts to backpedal. She sticks a purple-clad foot out. “I actually got these custom-made after I signed up. I thought it would be a fun way to celebrate a new Schitt’s Creek tradition.”

A few months of bowling one night a week does not a tradition make, David is pretty sure, but before he can voice that opinion a pitcher of worryingly vibrant green liquid appears on their table, along with a stack of plastic cups. David hadn’t even seen Patrick put in their order, but then, he’s been very distracted since they arrived.

“Oh good, I was just going to ask what we were drinking,” Stevie says, grabbing a cup from the top.

-

David is pretty sure this place’s version of a margarita is just lemon-lime Gatorade and tequila poured over ice, but as far as trashy drink combinations go, it’s not the worst he’s ever had. Stevie has taken her cup and settled back with minimal complaints while Twyla wanders over to Roland and Jocelyn’s lane to say hi - it seems to be part of the routine, for everyone to wander over to each other and chit-chat before the round actually starts, like they don’t see each other in town all the time. Patrick has already made his rounds, keeping it brief before returning to their lane with the one and only beer he plans on consuming tonight. David’s fine where he is, but he can appreciate the ritual. There’s something almost homey about it, the show of camaraderie, though he’s ready to stop hearing about how crazy it was for him to show up “here, of all places!”

Taking another sip from his Day-Glo cocktail, David and Stevie watch as Patrick lines up his third practice shot. Just like before, he pulls the ball up to his chest as he plants his feet one behind the other, shifts his hips, and takes two steps before stretching his arm out and releasing the ball. It glides down the lane, careening with the pins and knocking down all but one. Stevie rolls her eyes as he pumps his fist next to his hip. “Just like everything else he does, your husband takes this whole thing _way_ too seriously.”

“I know, but he’s so cute when he gets excited over pointless activities.”

Stevie makes a disgruntled noise into her drink as Patrick makes his way back. “Good job, honey!” David tells him, because he’s a loving and supportive partner, even if he’s here under protest.

“Thanks,” Patrick says as he pushes his sleeves back to his elbows, a look that David can always get behind. “Do you want to take a couple practice shots before it’s time to start?”

David makes a face. “Why would I want to throw the ball more than I have to?”

“Okay, well, you _roll_ the ball, definitely don’t throw it,” Patrick says, and David flaps a hand at the correction. “And it might help you warm up a little, you know? Get used to the movements?”

“What’s to get used to? You pick up the ball, you throw the ball - _roll_ the ball,” he corrects himself before Patrick can, “you knock down the things, you have a drink. I think I’m good.”

Stevie drains her cup and stands up. “I’ll go.”

David watches in disbelief as she saunters up to her lane, briefly inspects the balls before seeming to choose one at random, and hurls it down the lane with an unexpected amount of force, knocking down a whole bunch of pins. She grabs another ball while the pins reset, not bothering to wait for the first to return like Patrick had, and sends that one down too, knocking over the three still standing.

Patrick whistles in appreciation. “Nice spare, Stevie.”

“Thank you,” she says, pouring herself another drink and flopping back down into her seat.

“What’s a spare?” David asks in spite of himself. Stevie shrugs behind her cup.

“A spare is when you knock down some of the pins on your first roll, and get the rest of them on your second,” Patrick explains, looking startled when David whips around to stare at him.

“You mean I have to roll the thing twice on each turn?” he exclaims as Patrick nods. “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Well, it’s in the rules of the game, so technically, you did,” Patrick says, covering his smile with a sip of his beer. David throws his hands in the air, at a loss for the disastrous turn the evening has already taken. No wonder Patrick always gets home so late on bowling night - finishing a game must take for-fucking-ever.

“You sure you don’t want to take a couple practice shots?” Patrick says while Stevie smirks at him and takes another drink. David tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

“Fine.”

Taking a look around to make sure nobody’s watching him too closely, David takes a tentative step towards the lane, Patrick behind him but far enough away to be out of swinging range. David surveys the balls in front of him; not immediately able to tell the difference between any of them, he selects one that’s marbled with silver and black because he likes the look of it best. He pulls his arm back like he saw Patrick do, then thrusts it forward and releases the ball, which immediately rolls into the gutter. All three of them watch as it completes its lackadaisical roll to the end of the lane and disappears.

“I feel like that’s not great,” David says, because he feels like somebody ought to.

“That’s okay,” Patrick tells him, bravely keeping the grimace at bay as they wait for the ball to come back. “Try it again, but this time, try to keep your arm straight when you let the ball go.” He demonstrates the motion and David nods, picking up the ball again. This time, it makes it about halfway down the lane before once again rolling into the gutter. The pins remain untouched, standing tall in their mockery.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we had something to block those side things?” David says, turning back to Patrick.

Behind them, Stevie says, “Like a bumper?” David turns back and gestures in agreement before catching the look on her face and realizing she’s making fun of him. Damnit.

“Well, it would, but that would defeat the purpose,” Patrick is telling him. “It’s supposed to be about skill.”

“Okay, if it’s about skill, you’ve made a terrible mistake bringing me here tonight.”

“I agree,” Stevie chimes in, toasting him with her half-empty cup. David glares at her.

Undeterred, Patrick steps forward again and says, “You know what, let’s try this.” He bypasses all the (comparatively) tastefully colored balls and selects a truly grotesque orange specimen, hefting it in his hands before handing it to David, who accepts it with all the trepidation of a man who’s just been handed a live snake. “This one’s a little bit lighter, it’ll give you more control.”

“The fact that you think I have any control of this situation is laughable,” David says, but the ball does feel better in his hands, despite the offensive color. He steps up to the lane again, and Patrick steps up behind him, settling his hands on David’s hips.

“Like this,” he murmurs, turning David slightly. “Try and angle yourself towards the center pin. The ball follows the direction your toes are pointed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” David says, looking over his shoulder and catching Patrick’s grin.

“Maybe not,” he admits. “But it works.”

“Why don’t the two of you get a room?” The moment is shattered by a call from the lane next to theirs, and they look over to see Ronnie standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Patrick takes a step back, much to David’s chagrin.

“Hi Ronnie,” he calls back, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice, while Patrick offers an awkward little half-wave.

“David,” she returns before turning her back on them both. Message received. At least David doesn’t have to worry about her watching him. Patrick helps him reset his stance and takes a step back, and David takes a breath and sends the ball down. It’s not a straight shot down the center, by any means, but he manages to keep it out of the gutter this time, curving to the right and taking out three pins.

“Hey, look at that!” Patrick cries, sounding like David just pulled out a winning lottery ticket, but David just frowns. 

“I feel like I peaked too soon,” he says. Patrick laughs, clasping David’s shoulder with one hand and his arm with the other as they walk back to their bench.

“You didn’t peak too soon,” Patrick insists. “You’re going to do great.”

It’s not that David doesn’t appreciate the misguided optimism, but he doesn’t miss the competitive glint in his husband’s eyes when he looks over at Ronnie’s lane. David winces and tops off his drink. The night suddenly has the potential to take a very dark turn.

-

Twyla, it turns out, is bad at bowling. Really bad. Like, _really_ bad. She mostly manages to keep her ball in the lane, but she never manages to knock down more than one or two pins at a time. On several turns, her ball makes it all the way down to the end before rolling into the gutter just before it reaches the pins. Her form is confounding, even to David’s untrained eye, and she has a tendency to release the ball before her arm is fully extended, so that the ball smacks onto the wood with a sickening _THUD_ and rolls lazily down the lane at half the speed of everyone else’s. Her turns always take twice as long as theirs.

Twyla, however, remains blissfully unaware of her complete lack of skill. She stands at the top of her lane after each roll and stares at the ball as it continues on its glacial path, clapping her hands together no matter how many pins (or how few) she manages to knock down. “Isn’t this fun?” she exclaims as she sits down, like she’s honestly having the time of her life. It’s weirdly sweet.

Stevie barely pays attention to what she’s doing. She has no preference for which ball she uses, and she’s already turned her back to retrieve her drink as soon as it’s released from her hand. If the clatter behind her is loud enough, she'll look back over her shoulder and just say, “Huh.” For all her lack of care, however, she’s surprisingly good at knocking down pins. She manages to get at least half of them on the first roll, and usually knocks down the rest on the second. (“Picking up the spare,” Patrick informs David, sounding equal parts impressed and envious.) David accuses her of moonlighting as a professional bowler playing under an assumed identity, and Stevie rolls her eyes and tells him she’s only doing well because she doesn’t give a damn. (“No offense, Twyla.”)

David is a creature of habit. If he finds something that works for him he sticks with it, come hell or high water. He squares his hips, he points his toes, he keeps his arm straight (ish) and the ball stays in the lane more often than not. He doesn’t manage to knock down as many pins as Stevie, can’t pick up the spare to save his life, but he’s also not a total disaster so he counts it as a win.

Patrick is methodical, calculating, and precise when he steps up to the lane. He checks his angles, adjusts his stance, balances the ball in his hands as he considers the best way to approach the pins left standing after his first roll. He whips the ball down at lightning speed; it mostly stays in the center. His results are better than Stevie’s, but he’s putting in considerably more effort (though David is very much enjoying the view). After every turn, he checks his score on the screen above their lane, and then he glances over at Ronnie, obviously comparing notes.

Ronnie appears to be ignoring them, in that ostentatious way that means she’s really not. David doesn’t miss her smirk after she completes a turn. A quick glance at her screen confirms David’s suspicions that she’s outscoring them all. A quick glance at Patrick’s stormy expression confirms that he knows it, too.

-

  
  


“We need more margaritas,” David announces when they’re almost halfway through their first game, pretending not to see the shocked look Patrick throws at the empty pitcher.

“Yes we do,” Stevie agrees. It takes a minute for her to notice the pointed look David is giving her. “Oh, am I paying for these margaritas?”

“Well, we got the first pitcher,” David points out, using his reasonable voice (or not, judging from Stevie’s expression). “And we didn’t realize we’d be sharing with you, so…”

“I’m so sorry to put you out like that, it must have been really hard for you.”

“Mmhmm, less sass and more booze, thank you very much.” David waves her off with a flap of his hand.

Patrick takes his turn up ahead, manages to knock down all the pins. “Touchdown!” David cries.

“That’s football,” Patrick corrects, but he accepts a congratulatory kiss. “In bowling that’s called a strike.”

David frowns. “I thought strikes were bad.”

“That’s baseball.”

David rolls his eyes. “Would a little consistency be too much to ask?”

“Apparently.” Patrick laughs and nudges him forward. “We can talk about it more after your turn.”

This would be a great time for Stevie to show up with a fresh pitcher, but she’s nowhere to be found (and David’s pretty sure their drinks could glow in the dark, so she’d be easy to spot). Patrick claps his shoulder as he reluctantly drags himself to his feet. Those four pins aren’t going to knock themselves down.

-

It’s David’s best roll yet - not good, necessarily, but a personal high, and even Stevie makes a noise of appreciation, but Patrick is watching Ronnie celebrate what must have been a _very_ impressive shot. He catches Stevie’s eye and flaps an arm towards Patrick, who’s still paying him absolutely no attention. She follows his gesture and looks back at him and mouths _trouble._ How insightful.

Seeing his ball has been returned, David grabs it and rolls it down the lane. He doesn’t knock down the rest of the pins, but it’s pretty damn close, and the sound is enough to get Patrick to actually turn around. He does look suitably impressed that only two pins remain standing, which takes some of the sting out of the fact that he hadn’t actually seen them go down.

“Did you see all those pans I knocked over?” David says as he makes his way back.

Patrick huffs a laugh. “They’re called pins, David.”

“I know.” David drapes his arms over Patrick’s shoulders. “I just like watching you make that face.”

“I don’t make a face,” Patrick insists, making the face again. David has no choice but to lean in and kiss him.

“Um, Patrick?” Twyla’s voice interrupts them. “I think it’s your turn.”

It’s obviously his turn, there are only two people to a lane, but Patrick just says “Thank you” and disentangles himself from David’s arms.

“Maybe less kissing and more bowling,” Ronnie calls over, and Patrick stops in his tracks, turns to make some kind of retort, but she just raises her eyebrow before turning away, and then the moment has passed. Patrick rolls his neck like he’s trying to loosen a particularly stubborn knot.

Trying to diffuse some of the tension that’s obviously building, David says, “You know, the nice thing about this whole arrangement is that we don’t have to worry about what sort of drama is going on in the other lanes.”

Patrick glances back at him, brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just. You know we’re not actually playing against Ronnie tonight, right?”

Loud laughter can be heard from the next lane, and Patrick’s eyes cut to the side. “We’re always playing against Ronnie.” Jaw clenched, he stalks over to grab his ball, taking position at the top of the lane.

Turning to Stevie, David gestures at his husband and says, “What am I supposed to do about this?”

Stevie shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. “Sit back and enjoy the show?”

They both glance back at Ronnie after Patrick takes his first shot. She and her partner are both watching him with twin smirks on their faces. Stevie nudges David with her elbow. “Isn’t that the florist from your wedding?”

It is, or he’s pretty sure it is anyway. He’s sure he knew her name once but he certainly can’t remember it now (though in his defense, that was forever ago and he’s been drinking). “Yeah. Pretty sure it is, yep.”

They both take another look back, and Stevie says, “Damn. Good for her.”

-

David has a system. After each roll, he walks back to their bolted-down table, helps himself to the little bottle of hand sanitizer he had taken out of his bag after the practice rolls, takes another sip of his trash drink, and either goes back up to the lane or settles back into his seat, depending on what roll he’s on.

It’s neither a highly technical nor elaborate system, but it’s a system that works, and if it gets him to the end of the night in one piece, that’s good enough for him. He hadn’t missed the eyebrow Patrick had raised when the hand sanitizer first came out, but so far he’s let it pass without comment. This time, however, he makes an aborted sound, like he had started to clear his throat and then thought better of it. David tilts his head at him. “What?”

“You’re going to use that between every frame?” Patrick tilts his head as David tips the bottle into his palm. “It’s really going to dry your hands out.”

David briskly rubs his hands together. “Better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Scabies?”

Patrick gives a disbelieving little scoff. “You’re not going to get scabies, David.”

David caps the bottle with a definitive snap. “No. I’m not.”

“If you could get scabies from this place,” Ronnie pipes up, because she’s absolutely been eavesdropping, “your husband definitely would have brought it home by now, because I don’t ever see him using any of that handy stuff.”

“Okay, are you using any of that ‘handy stuff?’” David says, twisting around to face her.

“Nah.” Ronnie shrugs. “But I’m not the one with scabies.”

“I don’t have scabies!” Patrick cries, louder than he probably meant to, because several heads turn in their direction. Red-faced, Patrick mumbles something about his turn and slinks up to the lane while Ronnie laughs.

“Could you not?” David hisses, turning back to her, but Ronnie just laughs again and says, “Hey, he says he doesn’t have scabies, I believe him.”

“My cousin had scabies,” Twyla chimes in, coming back from another single-digit frame. “She said she got it from middle school, which is weird because she was 19 at the time. Unless she got it more than once, that is very possible.”

“By all means, let’s keep talking about scabies,” Stevie says, getting up to take her turn.

-

The second pitcher of margaritas disappears just as quickly as the first. “We need more drinks,” Stevie says, barely slurring her words at all.

For a moment neither of them move, and then David waves her towards the bar. “So go get more drinks.”

She gives him an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, why am I paying _again_?”

“I have a mortgage.”

Stevie scowls, but she’s already getting up. “Those words sound so weird coming out of your mouth.”

“I know, right?”

“David,” Patrick interrupts, and they both turn to look at him. “You’re up.”

“I’m up,” David tells Stevie, with considerably more enthusiasm than he’s shown up to this point, and sends Stevie on her way with a shooing motion. She’s back by the time he finishes his second roll, with two individual cups this time instead of a pitcher.

“It’s for the best,” she says in response to his raised eyebrows, holding his out for him.

“Speak for yourself.” David takes the cup, pulling it towards himself like somebody’s about to take it away. “I think I’m getting better the more I drink.”

Stevie looks at his score and snorts. “You definitely aren’t.”

“Fuck off, Stevie,” he says as he takes another sip.

-

Much as David hates to give Stevie credit, for anything, ever, he has to admit that she made the right call with the drinks. Another pitcher of this stuff would have tipped his pleasant buzz into a drunken melodramatic wasteland, and he’s pretty sure the sugar would put him in a diabetic coma.

On the other hand, getting through another game with no booze at all is both unimaginable and impossible.

“Damnit!” Patrick cries when Ronnie hits yet another strike, hastily moving away when she turns back and says, “Excuse me?”

“You know,” says Stevie, who’s migrated over to David’s side while Twyla bounds up to the lane for her turn, “normally I think his thing with Ronnie is pretty funny, but tonight I feel like it’s getting in the way of a good time.”

“Everything about tonight is getting in the way of a good time.” David twists to look over his shoulder at the way Patrick is glaring at Ronnie instead of rolling the damn ball; when she glances back in his direction he immediately looks away, pretending he was lining up the shot this whole time. “It would be great if they could maybe tone it down for one night.”

“It _would_ be great, but I don’t see that happening. Hang on.” Stevie hands David her empty cup so she can take her turn, hurling the ball down the lane and managing to knock down all ten pins.

“Wow, nice strike, Stevie!” Twyla enthuses while Patrick looks over in envy. 

Stevie just waves a hand over her shoulder. “Always nice when you only have to roll the ball once, right? Anyway.” She flops back down next to David. “The only reason Ronnie gives him a hard time is because your husband has a desperate need to be liked by everyone, and Ronnie can tell, and she doesn’t like it. Plus, she can smell fear. Like a shark.” Stevie pauses. “Do sharks smell fear?”

“I think they smell blood.”

They both watch as Twyla sends her ball down. It careens to the right, clipping a single pin in the back row as it disappears.

“Bees,” David says suddenly. “Bees can smell fear.”

“So,” Stevie says slowly, “we’re saying Ronnie is like...a swarm of bees?”

They both consider it. Finally, David says, “Actually? Yes.”

Twyla takes her second turn and knocks down a single pin on the left this time.

-

David reaches his limit as they’re getting close to the end of their third and final game. He’s watching Patrick scowl as Ronnie scores another strike, and when she catches him looking she says, “Top that, rookie.”

“Okay, Ronnie, I’ve actually been bowling for a while, like, years? So ‘rookie’ doesn’t really apply here.”

“Please.” She’s already walking away. “I’ve been rolling strikes since before you were born.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Patrick mutters, but Ronnie evidently catches it, because she whips around and snaps, “What did you say?”

“Okay!” David interjects, jumping up and grabbing Patrick by the wrist, pulling him away before he can form a response that will only make things worse. “Will you excuse us for a second?”

“Oh, it’s actually Patrick’s turn-” Twyla starts to say, but David cuts her off with a “Got it, thanks so much!”

He pulls Patrick away from the lanes and towards the wall, which doesn’t actually afford them any privacy, but at least there’s less chance of being overheard. He lets go of Patrick, who immediately crosses his arms across his chest. “David, what are you doing?”

“No, what are _you_ doing?” David shoots back. Patrick just shakes his head, eyebrows raised. “I mean, what has gotten into you tonight? What’s the point of coming out all this way if you’re not even enjoying yourself?”

Patrick frowns. “What makes you think I’m not enjoying myself?”

David gestures at him with both hands. “Other than your face, your voice, and your body language, you mean?” Patrick looks ready to protest, but David decides that he’s not done. He steadies himself on the wall for a brief moment, because he may be a little tipsy but he’s getting this out. “Look, I know you and Ronnie have your little thing that you do, and I know how competitive it can make you, and usually it’s fine, but you’ve been weird about it tonight. You both have. And it’s stopped being funny, and it’s stopped being cute. And honestly, if it’s just going to make you upset, maybe we could just call it a night.”

Patrick uncrosses his arms, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away. “I’m not upset.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

For a moment Patrick looks like he’s ready to argue, which would be a shame because then David would _really_ have to cause a scene, but then the moment passes, and he finally sighs and turns to lean his back against the wall. David waits a beat and then leans in next to him, mimicking his posture.

Finally, Patrick clears his throat. “So I guess I've kind of been acting like a jerk tonight.”

David tilts his head. “Mm, I’m not sure I would go that far. Not to me, anyway,” he clarifies at the sideways look Patrick gives him. “But you and Ronnie have been weirdly intense about this whole rivalry you’ve got going on, and it’s kind of put a damper on the whole evening. Even more than the bowling.”

Patrick cracks a small smile. “The bowling is the whole reason we’re here, David.”

“Yes,” David nods, “and I fully expected it to be the worst part of the evening, but here we are.” He’s trying to keep his voice mild, but Patrick ducks his head and looks away again. David leans into his shoulder. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s stupid,” Patrick mutters.

“Oh, I have no doubt.” He nudges Patrick’s foot with his own. “But you should probably just tell me anyway.”

Patrick sighs again. “Do you remember when I explained how the league scoring worked?”

David has a vague recollection of team scores and individual scores and team standings, but the whole thing had sounded unnecessarily complicated so he’d only been half listening. For the purposes of this conversation, however, he simply says, “Yes.”

“And you know how the team standings get emailed out the day after we play?”

David nods, perhaps a little too emphatically based on the slightly skeptical look that Patrick gives him. “Well,” he continues, “Ray and I have been trailing Ronnie since we started, but last week was the week we had actually managed to pull ahead.”

The pieces are starting to fall into place. “I see.”

“Yeah. And Ronnie’s been talking a lot of trash ever since. Not to me, personally, not to my face, but to just about everyone else, because she knows it’ll get back to me one way or the other. I know she only does it to psych me out, but...I guess I let it get to me this time, I don’t know.”

“No, that makes sense.” Fucking Ronnie.

“I know I get a little too competitive sometimes,” Patrick continues. “And I try not to let it get out of control because I know it stresses you out.”

“Only because I don’t like seeing you get upset,” David says, which is at least 80% true.

Patrick gives him another tiny smile but ducks his head again. “It’s just...if I’m going to do something, I want to be good at it.”

“You _are_ good, though!” David waves a hand at the lane. “You’ve basically got a million more points than all the rest of us - I mean, except for Stevie, but she’s clearly a freak.” He earns a small laugh on that one. “It just seems like you’re putting an insane amount of pressure on yourself over something that’s actually just supposed to be fun.”

“I know. I think I just got in my head.” Patrick rubs the back of his neck, finally booking up at David again. “I’m sorry. If I ruined the night.”

“Well, let’s be very clear here, my expectations for tonight were already pretty low, so you actually didn’t do as much damage as you think.”

Patrick chuckles, a little ruefully. “Well, I guess that’s good to know.”

“You know what I think.” David leans in and rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. “I think the night’s not over yet. We still have time to score enough points to stay ahead of Ronnie, don’t we?”

Patrick gives him a grateful smile but shakes his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think that ship has sailed.”

So much for that. “Well. In that case, let’s just see this fucking thing through to the bitter end.”

Patrick grins. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

They’re almost back to their lane when Patrick stops him with a tug on his hand. “Hey.” When David turns back, Patrick pulls him in by the waist. “You know there’s no one else I’d rather have on my team, right?”

David flicks his eyes to the ceiling and back as his arms find their way around Patrick’s shoulders. “Even though Stevie has more strokes than me?”

“Strikes,” Patrick says, warm and amused.

“And even though I haven’t gotten a single spore?”

Patrick leans in closer. “Now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

David’s mouth twists into a sideways smile. “Maybe.” He’s still smiling when Patrick kisses him, mouth gentle on his, and if David pulls him in a little closer, well. They’re married. He’s allowed.

“You two gonna finish up your game or what?”

“Shut up, Ronnie!” David yells over his shoulder, and Patrick breathes a laugh against his chest.

“What do you say we wrap it up and go home?”

David gives him a vigorous nod. “I think that’s a good idea.

-

If this were a movie - the feel-good type, the kind that you might put on at the end of a very bad day - Patrick would roll his strike, and win the game, and there would be hugs and cheering and lots of making out, because David is obviously the trophy husband in this particular genre.

Instead, Patrick takes a breath, lines up his shot, rolls the ball right down the center of the lane, and manages to knock down eight of the ten pins, leaving only the two on either end standing. David claps a hand to his mouth, just a little too late to completely muffle the bark of shocked laughter that escapes, but when Patrick turns around he’s laughing too, helplessly holding out his hands.

“Figures, right?” he says with a shake of his head.

“I think you’ve got this,” David tells him, with not even close to a straight face.

“Oh yeah, in my sleep.”

They grin at each other while Stevie rolls her eyes and grabs David’s half-finished drink for herself. The crisis, it seems, has been averted.

-

David doesn’t know the final score, nor does he care. He’s tired, and he can already tell his shoulder is going to be sore tomorrow. He needs to stop letting his husband talk him into this kind of physical activity (unless they’re in the comfort of their own home and wearing considerably less clothing).

Patrick offers to take David’s old, gross shoes back up to the counter, pausing to grab Stevie’s from where she’d kicked them off under the table before slumping against David’s shoulder.

“Hey.”

David turns around to see Ronnie behind him. He eyes her warily, but she just gives him a nod. “You did pretty good tonight.”

David rolls his eyes. “Compared to what?”

“Compared to nothing. You ever bowl before?”

“You should already know the answer to that.”

Ronnie concedes the point with a nod. “That’s all I’m saying. That you did alright. You know. For a rookie.”

“I thought my husband was the rookie. And while we’re on the subject.” He turns around to face her directly, ignoring Stevie’s mumbled protests. “Maybe it wouldn’t kill you to lighten up on him every once in a while? You know, in the interest of everyone’s sanity, specifically mine?”

Ronnie waves him off. “You know I only do it to wind him up.”

“Mhmm, well, maybe we could try winding him up a little less.”

Ronnie laughs. “I wouldn’t dish if he couldn’t take it.” With a zip of her coat, she bids them goodnight; as she passes Patrick at the counter on the way out, they give each other a nod.

“That was really fun, I’m so glad you two could make it!” Twyla says as she puts on her coat, and David really, really wants to know where she gets all of this positive energy from. “Maybe we’ll see you again sometime!”

Not fucking likely. “We’ll see,” David says, because even he feels sort of bad for raining on Twyla’s parade. She gives them a cheery wave as she heads out. David watches her go, then jostles his shoulder until Stevie lifts her head and glares at him with bleary eyes.

“Can we give you a ride home?” He asks. She looks like she actually has to think about it, and David rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, let me rephrase. We’re driving. You home.”

“Good idea.” Stevie manages to sit up enough to yank on her sneakers, though she doesn’t bother with the laces. She has a little bit more trouble with the coat, but she’s finally able to shrug it on, though it hangs a little crookedly on her shoulders. They’re ready to go by the time Patrick gets back.

“All set?” he says, zipping himself into his own coat and pulling the keys out of his pocket.

“Stevie needs a ride,” David tells him, and Patrick chuckles.

“Stevie definitely needs a ride,” he agrees. They make their clumsy way out to the parking lot, where the cold air hits them like a slap in the face, but the car’s not far, and Patrick starts to blast the heat as soon as the key is in the ignition while David tips Stevie into the backseat.

“Seatbelt,” Patrick calls over his shoulder as David lets himself into the passenger seat, and there’s a fair amount of grumbling coming from the back until they finally hear the telltale _click_. When David looks behind him, she’s pulled herself mostly upright, but she’s definitely listing to one side. Catching Patrick’s eye, he says, “Maybe she should just stay at our place tonight?”

“Yeah, I think so too.” Checking his mirrors, because he always checks his mirrors, Patrick pulls out of the parking lot, and they are finally, finally on the way home.

“Did you at least sort of have fun tonight?” Patrick asks as they drive. “Or am I better off not asking that question?”

David hums. “I suppose it wasn’t completely terrible.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Patrick reaches over and squeezes his hand once before returning his to the steering wheel, but when David looks over he can just catch the teasing glint in his smile. “Because I’m pretty sure Twyla is going to need a partner next week.”

  
  
  



End file.
